


Paint Me In Blood

by pastelahgase



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, But not explicit, Happy Ending, M/M, One Shot, Smut, Violence, but not a lot, markson, soft!mark, vigilante!jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelahgase/pseuds/pastelahgase
Summary: "It was dark and cold, the sky an endless swath of dark blues and twinkling whites.""But the blood on his hands was red and warm.""And somehow he couldn't bring himself to care."OrThe one where Jackson is a not-so-good-vigilante/killer who develops a longing for the soft American boy who doesn't put up with his bullshit.





	Paint Me In Blood

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this fic does contain some violence but nothing in detail as I am terrible at writing it. But if that is not your cup of tea then that's alright.  
> Also this fic is not supposed to portray or glorify any mental illnesses whatsoever.  
> On that note, please read and enjoy!  
> P.S. This work is un beta'd so please excuse any spelling or grammatical errors.

He wasn't sure when it started.

When the string holding together his sanity and reality began to fray.

He does know when it snapped.

It was when he was sitting at the dinner table of his foster parents' "too-small-to-be-mansion-to-big-to-be-normal" home, absentmindedly pushing the food around the plate with his fork while his foster parents had a mundane quarrel about one thing or the other.

He never had been one for mundane things.

When he finally looked up from his very mundane plate of food, his chocolate brown eyes taking in the very mundane scene set before him, he began to wonder how deep of a cut his dinner knife could make on his foster father's throat or whether the blade was sharp enough to pierce his foster mother's heart.

Was that normal?

He checked himself, searching his mind for any proof that these were normal, teenage boy thoughts.

Probably not.

But then again, Jackson Wang had never been normal.

It wasn't normal to count every second it took him to ruin this little family. 

It wasn't normal that he remembered afterwards exactly how long it took for him to stand up (knife in hand), walk to his foster father, grab onto him, and then slit his throat.

Five minutes.

It took fifteen minutes to chase down his foster mother (who had immediately let out a shriek and torn through the house, desperate to hide somewhere until she could call for help) and twist the knife into her heart.

\--------------------

When he stepped outside, it was dark and cold, the sky an endless swath of dark blues and twinkling whites.

But the blood on his hands was red and warm.

And somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.

\--------------------

Jackson Wang found that he enjoyed the after math that came with killing someone.

The way the news got out, police everywhere, reporters interviewing tearful neighbors who went on and on about how much they loved the victims when in reality they hadn't given two shits about them before the cameras showed up.

It was something he didn't get to experience often.

Because Jackson Wang did not kill for fun.

He learned this after murdering his foster parents, when the blood was still fresh on his hands and the terrified look in his foster mother's eyes before he stabbed her was imprinted on his mind. 

Instead of sticking around, Jackson had wiped his hands on his jeans, leisurely walked to town, and took shelter in the first back alley he could find. 

When morning light came, (the blood now dry and on his hands and underneath his fingernails) Jackson inspected his body, looking for signs of injury to himself, only wincing slightly when his fingers traced over a few choice bruises from a couple of nights before that had not yet healed.

His foster father had done that while his foster mother had stood by and watched.

His foster parents had not been good to him. 

They had deserved to die.

So Jackson Wang decided that he only liked to kill those who deserved to die.

\--------------------

His hands dug further into the pockets of his oversized hoodie, the hood covering the smile that spread across his lips when he walked past the commotion of cameras, neighbors, and policeman.

Not one of them noticed.

And he was perfectly fine with that.

\--------------------

Jackson didn't kill again until he was twenty-one. 

He had grown up since the first murder. 

Unfortunately, he hadn't matured past the height of 5'9, but his broad shoulders and muscled arms definitely made up for that.

He was what most would consider handsome. His eyes still as warm and chocolaty as they always had been, but his features had filled out, leaving everyone who gazed upon him speechless and wondering if he had been chiseled by the gods.  
He could never help the smirk that spread across his plush lips whenever a girl (and the occasional boy) would coo at him on the street, he'd turn back long enough to give them a wink before he continued on his way.  
His first sort of friends-with-benefits had once told him the slight upturn of his nose from the side profile was adorable, and his second off again/on again girlfriend had told him just how much she liked the muscles on his back.

Funny that it was because of these handsome features that he wound up killing again.

The second (technically third) victim was a pervert who had drunkenly tried to feel him up and Jackson, having very little patience for those who sexually harassed innocents, took the man to a back alley and quickly disposed of him there.

Jackson had forgotten the feeling of warm blood on his hands.

His fingers were so cold from the crisp, night air of autumn that it was a welcome feeling.

He smiled.

And he continued smiling even after he had washed the blood from his hands in the sink of a dirty bathroom in a very dirty bar.

\---------------------

 

Jackson did not think of himself as a serial killer.

He didn't even think of himself as a murderer though the news insisted otherwise.

When Jackson thought about it, he decided he was more of a vigilante, because vigilantes didn't necessarily enjoy killing people and they only killed specific people.

Serial killers were those who killed for fun or enjoyment.

At least that's what the definitions had said.

And Jackson didn't enjoy it.

He didn't enjoy it as he watched the life slowly drain from his latest victim (a middle aged man trying to sex traffic several young girls), the man's eyes glazing over as he took one last sputtering breath.

He didn't enjoy it as he wiped the blood of a corrupt bar owner off on his dark jeans.

He didn't enjoy it as he pushed the knife in just a little deeper, ignoring the victim's cry of pain and subsequent last breath as he gave the knife a twist.

He told himself this over and over again.

But then again, Jackson had never been a very good liar.

\--------------------

Jackson remembered in perfect detail the day he met Mark Tuan.

It was dark (seems like it was always dark), with hints of a storm looming in the sky.

Jackson thought it was beautiful.

Almost as beautiful as the way the blood from his latest kill stood out on the white brick of the alley wall.  
The victim (a thirty something year old con artist with a penchant for hiring male prostitutes and then treating them with very little care), lay there on the ground, his body so sliced up and bloody from Jackson's handiwork it was hardly recognizable. 

Jackson thought it was an improvement.

Apparently so did someone else.

Jackson heard him before he saw him. He heard the slight shuffle, a small whimper followed by a muffled curse.

Jackson let out a sigh, knowing that whatever poor soul had stumbled upon him would not be stumbling away.

"To be continued." He murmured to the dissected corpse before turning towards the direction of the intruder, his favorite knife already in his hand.

"Come out small one, I promise I don't bite." Jackson called out softly, a wispy smile spread across his lips.

What happened next surprised him.

From behind the nearby dumpster (where Jackson had been planning to dispose of the victim's body), a child came out.

Well, he wasn't a child.

But the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way the oversized sweater he wore swallowed his figure, the way his hands disappeared into sweater paws made him seem like one.

What he said next definitely was not something that usually came out of a child's mouth.

"Are you sure? You seem like the type to have a kink for that, or maybe you prefer the way your partner's blood looks underneath your fingernails after you've sufficiently marked them." 

Jackson stumbled back, surprised that:  
1\. The boy was brave enough to speak.  
2\. He was surprisingly on point concerning Jackson's favorite kinks.

He almost could have laughed-in fact he did-his eyes closed and head tilted back as a wild, hyena like laugh escaped his lips.

When he finally got ahold of himself, he was surprised to see the boy still standing there, expressionless from what Jackson could see.

Jackson would someday learn that this was always how Mark looked when he was thinking deeply.

"What's your name?" 

It was a simple enough question, but it was not one Jackson faced on a regular basis. 

After all, a man's name is all he has.

"You tell me first." Jackson replied, arms crossing in front of his chest in a show of manliness.

The boy smiled then, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, which Jackson was becoming increasingly annoyed that he still couldn't see.

"Mark. Mark Tuan." He said softly, one of his hands reaching up to run through his hair, fingers almost getting tangled but somehow smoothing through at the last minute.

Jackson hated it.

He especially hated that he was not curious as to what it would feel like to run his own fingers through that hair.

Apparently he waited too long to reply, because suddenly Mark was laughing, and it was the most beautiful sound Jackson had ever heard.  
He wanted to record it and listen to it whenever he was feeling especially dark and dismal.

"Now that you know my name, the least you can do is return the favor." Mark said once he had finally stopped laughing, and Jackson immediately missed it.

After some careful thought (for really, you could never be too careful nowadays), Jackson replied, "Jackson, no nicknames, no middle names, just Jackson."

This time, when Mark smiled, it almost seemed sincere.  
"Good to know." And with that, he was off, running so fast that really, it would have been quite the hassle for Jackson to try and catch up to him.

Jackson cursed.

Cursed the fact he had hesitated.

Cursed the fact he had revealed himself.

And cursed the fact that Mark Tuan was now the only thing he could think about.

\--------------------

It seemed that fate was determined for Jackson Wang and Mark Tuan's lives to be intertwined in the strangest of ways.

Over the next three months, the two continued to run into each other (aka, Mark somehow kept showing up to the scene of the crime and then running away before Jackson could stop him).

And over those next three months, Jackson learned some very interesting things about Mark.

1\. Mark was about six months older than him  
2\. He was born in L.A., but had moved to Korea when he was about 17 (thank god Jackson had finally met someone else who could speak English because Korean could be a real pain).  
3\. Mark did, in fact, have very pretty eyes that Jackson took every opportunity to admire.  
4\. Whenever he would smile or laugh, his teeth would show.  
5\. He had very nice teeth  
6\. The canines were sharp and Jackson often found himself wondering what they would feel like sinking into his skin.  
7\. Mark apparently did not care that Jackson was a sort-of-murderer-and-self-proclaimed-vigilante. "You're bad at both so you can't really claim either." Mark had told him one day while watching him paint a design of roses using blood he had stolen from a blood drive.  
8\. Mark was a healthy, bisexual man who enjoyed teasing Jackson every chance he got.  
9\. Mark had a tendency to be quiet to the point of almost being forgotten.  
10\. Mark was a stickler for dates and remembering important things.  
11\. Jackson was irrevocably in love with him.  
12\. And Mark loved him too.

 

\--------------------

Their relationship wasn't healthy.

It was wild and passionate, full of possessive markings and satisfied whimpers.

It was full of fighting too.

The arguments never made any sense, they were usually about something stupid (I.e. Why is it I have to do this every time or why can't you just listen for once etc.), usually the argument was solved by angry sex followed by apologetic pillow talk.

Their relationship was (pardon the cliche term) a ticking time bomb.

And one day it was going to explode.

When the bomb finally went off, it chose the most beautiful day to do so.

It was summer, the sky blue and full of fluffy, white clouds, a cool breeze blowing through the trees that surrounded the little apartment complex Mark and Jackson had moved into.

The breeze outside translated to a full blown hurricane inside said little apartment.

The argument this time was one that would not be solved with angry sex.

Because this time the argument actually meant something.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Mark questioned, his voice dripping with disdain as he stared daggers at the blond haired boy standing across from him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't, why can't you just cooperate?"

"There's nothing to cooperate with."

"Fuck you."

"Already have."

The argument went on for what seemed like hours, meaningless insults and cold replies being thrown back and forth.

One of them would have to snap.

But Jackson had snapped a long time ago.

So when it happened, when the frustrated boy ran a hand through his freshly dyed hair, brushing the soft, silvery blond locks out of the way so that Jackson could see just how cold those usually warm and beautiful eyes were.

It hurt.

"I fucking hate you."

Four words. Four words were all it took to end Jackson's simple web of relative happiness.

Jackson stood there, mouth hanging open slightly and chocolate, brown eyes wide with shock, staring at the one person he thought would never say such a thing.

"Y-you don't mean that, you can't mean that." Jackson began, stumbling over what words he could possibly say that would bring Mark, his Mark back to him.

Mark laughed then, but it wasn't the bright, warm sound Jackson was used to, it was cold and unamused.  
When he finally stopped laughing and looked at Jackson, he smiled, the same smile he had given him the day they had first met.  
"That's the thing Jackson," he murmured as he cornered the slightly younger boy, pressing him back against the kitchen counter (how had they wound up in the kitchen?), "I mean every. single. word. Maybe if you had put even half of what you did into this relationship as you do with your quote 'work,' then you would realize that I always mean what I say."

And with that, Mark detached his hands from where they had locked Jackson in place against the counter, grabbed the bag that had been sitting on the kitchen table, and walked out the door.

Jackson told himself it was alright.

That he didn't care.

Yet Jackson still cried for the first time that night anyway.

\--------------------

Time passed.

Jackson lost track of just how much.

One day, one week, one month, one year, nothing really mattered after Mark left.

Somehow Jackson still held onto the hope that Mark was bluffing, that he would be back, that he would appear just like he had the first time, drowning in an oversized sweater and much too curious for his own good.

But that never happened.

Jackson gave up being a murderer/vigilante and decided to become a painter instead (he had the decency to start using actual paint) and eventually decided to open his own studio for it, as it seemed people actually liked his work.

And, to be completely honest, he was starting to like it too.

\--------------------

The third anniversary of Mark's departure dawned exactly as it had for the past three years, bright and sunny, just like the original day.

Jackson would claim that he didn't know what special day that day was, and with a smile as convincing as his, it was quite believable.

But Jackson remembered.

He always remembered.

So maybe that's why he buried himself into his latest project, a painting depicting a young boy crying on the floor as a full moon shone down upon him.

Maybe that's why he didn't hear the footsteps.

"That's quite the painting, does it have any significant meaning?" A voice asked behind him.

A voice that took Jackson about five seconds to recognize.

Jackson knew how that voice sounded when upset, how it sounded when happy, how nothing was as much of a turn on as the whimpers it could make when in the throws of pleasure.

Jackson turned around so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash.

He was greeted by a sharp toothed smile and followed by a laugh.

A laugh which he had fallen asleep to for the past three years.

"Why did you leave?" Was all he could manage to say, voice cracking with the effort to not cry.

Mark looked at him, his appearance the same except for his hair (which had gone back to its natural dark color). For a moment he just stood there, staring, a hand reaching up to rake through his dark lock, before he finally spoke.

"You idiot, how could you not know?" It was not stated in a cruel way, it was more sad than anything else, holding something almost wistful behind it.

So Jackson thought. 

And when it dawned on him he almost wanted to cry. 

"It was our anniversary." He marveled, completely at a loss of words.

"Bingo." And once again Mark laughed.

 

\--------------------

Jackson quickly turned that laugh into a moan as he sank his teeth into Mark's neck, hands quickly divesting the somewhat older man of his clothes before they were roaming to much more intimate places.

God, Jackson had missed this.

Mark had missed this.

And when they both finally came undone, Mark with his legs wrapped tightly around Jackson's waist and Jackson seated fully inside him, Jackson swore that the cord holding his sanity together had been repaired.

And he was sure of it when Mark, limbs tangled together with Jackson's on the bed which Jackson had still not replaced, sleepily murmured three words into his neck.

Three words that Jackson wanted to hear every day for the rest of his life.

"I love you."

\--------------------

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Loved it?  
> Hated it?  
> Please let me know! As this is my first fic I would really like to get some feedback (whatever criticism you have please make it positive).  
> Also, this was meant to be a one shot, so unless I get a massive clamor for more I'll end it here.


End file.
